


Something, Something, Hellfire

by roswyrm



Series: Deadlands [3]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Blasphemy, Con Artists, Drinking & Talking, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pre-Slash, Zombies, but only a little of those last five
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 13:26:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19357930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roswyrm/pseuds/roswyrm
Summary: Nathaniel Fletcher knows he’s dead weight, but he also knows how to work a crowd of religious fanatics. Of course, whether or not he works them the way that he’strying tois basically a coin toss.





	Something, Something, Hellfire

**Author's Note:**

> me: okay this is gonna be the one where i get the idiots together  
> me, writing fletcher whining in a bar and not knowing where the fuck to go from there: _the next one is gonna be the one where i get the idiots together_
> 
> the title is taken from my understanding of the lyrics from _Hellfire_ by the Mechanisms.

Now, Nathaniel Fletcher has never really seen himself as the kind of man to take an active role in a church service, but this is nothing if not a chance to flex his acting muscles. His hair is slicker than usual, there’s a rosary wrapped around his hand the way his mama taught him way back when, and there’s a little black-and-white collar slipped around his neck. “How do I look?” Fletcher asks with a sly grin, because sly is the only thing he really knows how to pull off. They’re waiting it out in a hostel sat precariously atop a saloon, and Fletcher’s leaning rakishly against the doorway to the bathroom, cleverly disguised. The suit’s second-hand, and a little tighter than it really ought to be, but Fletcher figures that’ll just make it all the nicer to shed once they blow this hellhole. “Think I’ll get any interesting confessions?” Carl and Cigarillo don’t look up from their card game. Zeke doesn’t look up from cleaning the guns. “Uh, hello!”

Zeke raises his black eyes from the guns slowly, and Fletcher shrinks under his glare. “Shave off that thing you call a mustache and it’d work. Y’ just look like a preacher’s son playin’ dress up in his daddy’s clothes.” Fletcher scowls at him. Zeke stares back, eyes dark and deadpan, and Fletcher scowls at the air next to his head so he doesn’t have an anxiety attack. (The big guy is _scary,_ okay?)

Cigarillo makes a strangled noise. Carl asks, “Do you even know enough to be a preacher?” Fletcher looks over at him, and his eye catches on Cigarillo’s face, on account of its being an interesting shade of pink. Poor kid probably got sunburned riding on Sacramento without his hat.

Fletcher scoffs and drops down onto the table just a few inches away from the cards. “Jesus did a lot of holy shit, real benevolent, God and the devil hate each other, blah blah blah. All I need to know, really.” Cigarillo makes a face at him, and then his eyes dart back to his cards. “And what’s wrong with my mustache?” Zeke grunts. It’s a non-answer, but Fletcher decides that bickering with the man who’s got all their guns isn’t something he’s brave enough to do. He moves from the table to the floor, rocking forward on his knees as he says, “Deal me in, I want to win back my five dollars.” Carl beams at him, and his old hands are quicker around the cards than they really ought to be.

(Fletcher hopes the kid’s doing alright. He wins back all of his money and then some; he’s never seen Cigarillo play this poorly.)  
///\\\\\///\\\\\///\\\\\  
Nathaniel Fletcher is integral to this plan. There were rumours of dead ‘uns surging up in Texas, so their little gang rolled right on up to Nevada instead. And in Nevada, there’s this little town called Crowbrook, and in Crowbrook, there’s this little relgious sect that somebody’s gotta satisfy to get anything done. Now, if they were planning on staying, maybe it’d matter more, but the beauty of the plan is that if one of them distracts the religious sect for long enough, the other three can do whatever the hell they want. Zeke’s less charismatic than a rattlesnake, (at least those things know how to put on a show) so he was out of the running almost immediately. Carl would be great at distracting them for a moment, but not great at staying religious, and they’d dismiss him too fast. Cigarillo squeaks and stutters too much. So it fell down to Fletcher.

Dead weight in a pretty package, but if all the plan needed was a nice package, then Fletcher was the best one to use.

So Fletcher stepped out of his skirts and into his big boy pants, adjusted the fake preacher’s collar, and worked over the rosary beads just like Mama taught him. He mouthed _“En el nombre del Padre, y del Hijo, y del Espíritu Santo. Amen,”_ like the words had any meaning left in them. Maybe they did. Not to Fletcher; not really.

The folks of Crowbrook set out a little stage and everything. Fletcher stands behind the makeshift curtains, overheating even in the shade, sweating like there’s no tomorrow. He looks up and over, squinting against the clear blue sky to see Cigarillo with his ‘50, keeping a look out from the abandoned steeple that Fletcher had picked the lock on discretely before they really kicked into gear. Fletcher can’t see Carl or Zeke, but he knows where they are: sitting outside the bank, already starting to break in and run all the money out to their horses while the town’s watching Fletcher give his sermon. 

All Fletcher needs to do now is _give the damn sermon._ “…a través del mismo Cristo Nuestro Señor,” he finishes out loud, barely a whisper, but out loud all the same. Fletcher takes a deep breath. He hasn’t done a rosary prayer in years. He doesn’t know if he still goes in for all that God crap, (probably not) but he kind of hopes there’s something looking out for him. Not for him, exactly; Fletcher’s a good actor, so he doesn’t need a good God to watch over him. His friends… his _gang,_ though, they’ve never had fate or fortune on their side, and if there’s a God looking over all the outlaws with a mind for money, he hopes they get the biggest share of that holy luck.

“Amen.”

And Fletcher steps out into the blazing winter’s sun, the makeshift stage creaking under his feet. “Now,” he says, and there are a lot of things that terrify a man like Fletcher, but crowds have never been one of them, “you seem like the kinda people that need a long, long, _long_ talk about the book of Job.”  
///\\\\\///\\\\\///\\\\\  
Zeke is… he’s something else when he’s drunk. Fletcher doesn’t even notice at first, because when the guy is that big, you just kinda assume he’s got the alcohol tolerance of a small elephant. Or maybe a really big grizzly bear. But then, about halfway through the night, Zeke basically collapses onto his shoulder, and Fletcher nearly shrieks like a fox before he realizes that the big guy is just. Relaxing. _On Fletcher._ He laughs, “You alright there?” and it only sort of comes out strained and nervous. Zeke grunts noncommittally.

Fletcher nods to himself, just slightly; he doesn’t want to do the wrong thing and set off the big guy on his shoulder. Zeke doesn’t move for the rest of the night, and eventually, Fletcher gets up the courage to set a hand on the back of his neck and move his thumb, _scratchscratchscratch,_ through the soft hair on the back of Zeke’s neck. Zeke doesn’t stop him. And maybe, _maybe,_ throughout the course of the next two drinks, Fletcher gets so bold as to lean his cheek against the crown of Zeke’s head. Bold has never really been a word to describe Fletcher, and it still isn’t now, because the second Zeke shifts, Fletcher jolts straight like someone ran an electric current though his spine. He doesn’t apologize, though, because he’s still coming down of the high of performing and the thrill of a good flee. “I think you’re a coward and a liability,” Zeke says, very seriously and very slowly, like his drink is drawing out the seconds into minutes.

“Who doesn’t?” Fletcher asks, smiling widely (anxiously) at him. 

Zeke glowers back, and Fletcher has _got_ to break his habit of getting so damn close to people like this. It wasn’t so bad with Cigarillo, no one could see that, but this time Fletcher can feel the whole damn saloon’s eyes on them. “I ain’t finished,” he snaps, and Fletcher goes very still. “I don’t trust you not to flee in the middle of the night from a coyote howl, and I think you’re gonna get somebody killed. _But,_ if you weren’t a damn fool, I might like you a hell of a lot.” 

“I’m the smartest person on the team!” Fletcher protests, and he doesn’t care if that gets him a pinch from Cigarillo or a punch in the arm from Zeke, it’s _true._

The big guy’s laughter isn’t any less off-putting now, especially not when it’s so close to Fletcher’s ears. Especially not when his grin shows off the tooth he chipped trying to keep a mammoth of a dead ‘un at bay. Especially not when the scar across his lip curves like– oh, Jesus, Fletcher’s staring at his mouth. That’s not allowed in any sense of the word. “Then I guess I must like you a hell of a lot,” Zeke replies like he’s just tricked Fletcher into admitting something.

Fletcher stares, and then he coughs and turns back to the table. The big guy’s just drunk off his ass. It’s nothing, and it’s nothing Fletcher’d ever want, anyway. Zeke sets his head back down on Fletcher’s shoulder, long hair falling down to Fletcher’s elbow because his arm is staying by his side, thank you, not going anywhere else for the rest of the night. Fletcher manages, “Can’t say many people think that.” And Zeke laughs again, quieter, right below Fletcher’s left ear, and any feelings that Fletcher has about that _are not allowed._

Jesus.

He’s blaming this on the adrenaline and the drink and then he’s never thinking about it again.  
///\\\\\///\\\\\///\\\\\  
The dead ‘uns are getting smarter.

Fletcher knows this because unthinking, mindless drones don’t stage an ambush just far enough away from the outskirts of town that no one can hear them. The dead ‘uns are getting smarter, but Carl’s still a damn good shot, and Zeke’s still good with his club, and Cigarillo’s still got the biggest gun he can carry. Fletcher spurs Sacramento onward, and Cigarillo keeps one arm wrapped tight around his waist as he fires.

They get out alive, and it’s only because dead ‘uns are easy to kill, but it doesn’t stop Fletcher from whooping as they ride on. Cigarillo laughs more than a little hysterically and clutches tighter to him, pressing his face into Fletcher’s spine. It doesn’t shock Fletcher like the first hug did, but only because Cigarillo’s got it into his pretty little head somehow that Fletcher not pushing him off that one time was an open invitation for touching. It doesn’t shock him because Cigarillo’s damn near _always_ touching him, either an arm around his waist or a head resting on his lap or _something,_ and it’s the worst! It’s not like Fletcher can tell him to cut it out, because of the way that the kid would look at him! So he’s got to endure all of the affection without saying anything. 

That’s what it is.

He doesn’t like it, and he’d tell the kid off if he could. But he can’t. Definitely can’t. Not ‘doesn’t want to’ or anything, he just. Can’t. 

Yeah.

Cigarillo stops clinging to him quite so tightly, and it’s a relief, and Fletcher’s sigh is of _relief._ There’s no disappointment left curling in his lungs like acrid cigar smoke. “Sharp riding, kid,” Cigarillo says, and Fletcher can barely hear his own laugh over the thundering of Sacramento’s hooves.

“I’m twenty-six years old,” Fletcher points out, “I don’t think I count as a kid.”

And in his tiny little squeaky voice Cigarillo objects, “Well, I’m twenty-seven, so there!” And Fletcher is too busy riding away to call bullshit. There’s no way Cigarillo’s older than him. There’s no _way;_ he’s so small! Not even 5’5” with less than no muscle to speak of! Fletcher’s being had. Cigarillo’s bullshitting.  
///\\\\\///\\\\\///\\\\\  
Fletcher slumps into the wooden table. “I can’t believe I’m the baby of the group,” he complains, “I mean– me! Look at me, I’m practically dripping with good looks and charm—”

“Literally dripping with hair grease,” Carl chimes in helpfully.

“—and _I’m_ the _baby?_ This is awful!” Fletcher finishes as though he didn’t hear the old man’s interruption. He takes another sip of his beer and continues scowling in no particular direction as the rest of the group laughs at his expense. This is the worst thing that has ever happened to Fletcher, including that time he got thrown off a building. Actually, no, this is the second worst thing that has ever happened to him because one time he bought a yellow dress and it — whoof, it was not a good look. But still! The point remains! This is _awful!_ And he’s going to complain about how awful it is for the forseeable future. Baby of the group. It’s terrible.

Cigarillo pats him comfortingly on the back. Fletcher huffs indignantly at him. How _dare_ he be a whole year older than Fletcher, that’s practically indecent. A whole year! And he’s so little! It ought to be illegal, and Cigarillo ought to be arrested, and Fletcher wouldn’t break him out this time because it’s _what he deserves._ How dare he. Fletcher takes another drink. “I-If it makes you feel better, I’m still the smallest person?” Fletcher groans and slumps further into the table.

**Author's Note:**

> im on tumblr @roswyrm come yell me into writing some more of this! ily!!


End file.
